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It
’
s
Giovanni
.
He
sounds
confused
.
He
says
he
’
s
been
waiting
for
me
for
over
an
hour
in
the
Piazza
Fiume
,
which
is
where
we
always
meet
on
Thursday
nights
for
language
exchange
.
He
’
s
bewildered
,
because
normally
he
’
s
the
one
who
’
s
late
or
who
forgets
to
show
up
for
our
appointments
,
but
he
got
there
right
on
time
tonight
for
once
and
he
was
pretty
sure
-
didn
’
t
we
have
a
date
?
I
’
d
forgotten
.
I
tell
him
where
I
am
.
He
says
he
’
ll
come
pick
me
up
in
his
car
.
I
’
m
not
in
the
mood
for
seeing
anybody
,
but
it
’
s
too
hard
to
explain
this
over
the
telefonino
,
given
our
limited
language
skills
.
I
go
wait
outside
in
the
cold
for
him
.
A
few
minutes
later
,
his
little
red
car
pulls
up
and
I
climb
in
.
He
asks
me
in
slangy
Italian
what
’
s
up
.
I
open
my
mouth
to
answer
and
collapse
into
tears
.
I
mean
-
wailing
.
I
mean
-
that
terrible
,
ragged
breed
of
bawling
my
friend
Sally
calls
"
double
-
pumpin
’
it
,
"
when
you
have
to
inhale
two
desperate
gasps
of
oxygen
with
every
sob
.
I
never
even
saw
this
griefquake
coming
,
got
totally
blindsided
by
it
.
Poor
Giovanni
!
He
asks
in
halting
English
if
he
did
something
wrong
.
Am
I
mad
at
him
,
maybe
?
Did
he
hurt
my
feelings
?
I
can
’
t
answer
,
but
only
shake
my
head
and
keep
howling
.
I
’
m
so
mortified
with
myself
and
so
sorry
for
dear
Giovanni
,
trapped
here
in
this
car
with
this
sobbing
,
incoherent
old
woman
who
is
totally
a
pezzi
-
in
pieces
.
I
finally
manage
to
rasp
out
an
assurance
that
my
distress
has
nothing
to
do
with
him
.
I
choke
forth
an
apology
for
being
such
a
mess
.
Giovanni
takes
charge
of
the
situation
in
a
manner
far
beyond
his
years
.
He
says
,
"
Do
not
apologize
for
crying
.
Without
this
emotion
,
we
are
only
robots
.
"
He
gives
me
some
tissues
from
a
box
in
the
back
of
the
car
.
He
says
,
"
Let
’
s
drive
.
"
He
’
s
right
-
the
front
of
this
Internet
cafe
is
far
too
public
and
brightly
lit
a
place
to
fall
apart
.
He
drives
for
a
bit
,
then
pulls
the
car
over
in
the
center
of
the
Piazza
della
Repubblica
,
one
of
Rome
’
s
more
noble
open
spaces
.
He
parks
in
front
of
that
gorgeous
fountain
with
the
bodacious
naked
nymphs
cavorting
so
pornographically
with
their
phallic
flock
of
stiff
-
necked
giant
swans
.
This
fountain
was
built
fairly
recently
,
by
Roman
standards
.
According
to
my
guidebook
,
the
women
who
modeled
for
the
nymphs
were
a
pair
of
sisters
,
two
popular
burlesque
dancers
of
their
day
.
They
gained
a
fair
bit
of
notoriety
when
the
fountain
was
completed
;
the
church
tried
for
months
to
prevent
the
thing
from
being
unveiled
because
it
was
too
sexy
.
The
sisters
lived
well
into
old
age
,
and
even
as
late
as
the
1920s
these
two
dignified
old
ladies
could
be
seen
walking
together
every
day
into
the
piazza
to
have
a
look
at
"
their
"
fountain
.
And
every
year
,
once
a
year
,
for
as
long
as
he
lived
,
the
French
sculptor
who
had
captured
them
in
marble
during
their
prime
would
come
to
Rome
and
take
the
sisters
out
to
lunch
,
where
they
would
reminisce
together
about
the
days
when
they
were
all
so
young
and
beautiful
and
wild
.
So
Giovanni
parks
there
,
and
waits
for
me
to
get
a
hold
of
myself
.
All
I
can
do
is
press
the
heels
of
my
palms
against
my
eyes
,
trying
to
push
the
tears
back
in
.
We
have
never
once
had
a
personal
conversation
,
me
and
Giovanni
.
All
these
months
,
all
these
dinners
together
,
all
we
have
ever
talked
about
is
philosophy
and
art
and
culture
and
politics
and
food
.
We
know
nothing
of
each
other
’
s
private
lives
.
He
does
not
even
know
that
I
am
divorced
or
that
I
have
left
love
behind
in
America
.
I
do
not
know
a
thing
about
him
except
that
he
wants
to
be
a
writer
and
that
he
was
born
in
Naples
.
My
crying
,
though
,
is
about
to
force
a
whole
new
level
of
conversation
between
these
two
people
.
I
wish
it
wouldn
’
t
.
Not
under
these
dreadful
circumstances
.
He
says
,
"
I
’
m
sorry
,
but
I
don
’
t
understand
.
Did
you
lose
something
today
?
"
But
I
’
m
still
having
trouble
figuring
out
how
to
talk
.
Giovanni
smiles
and
says
encouragingly
,
"
Parla
come
magni
.
"
He
knows
this
is
one
of
my
favorite
expressions
in
Roman
dialect
.
It
means
,
"
Speak
the
way
you
eat
,
"
or
,
in
my
personal
translation
:
"
Say
it
like
you
eat
it
.
"
It
’
s
a
reminder
-
when
you
’
re
making
a
big
deal
out
of
explaining
something
,
when
you
’
re
searching
for
the
right
words
-
to
keep
your
language
as
simple
and
direct
as
Roman
food
.
Don
’
t
make
a
big
production
out
of
it
.
Just
lay
it
on
the
table
